


Hitchhiker Guide to the Bar Gangbang

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Drugged Sex, Episode Related, Episode: s01e11 Scarecrow, Gangbang, Hitchhiking, Humiliation, M/M, Mild Blood, Multi, Rape, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Victim Blaming, Wincest Hints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29836419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When Sam hitchhikes in Scarecrow, he gets picked up.
Relationships: Sam Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11
Collections: Anonymous





	Hitchhiker Guide to the Bar Gangbang

**Author's Note:**

> ttttags! credit to the genius who graciously gave me the title. king. 
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Sam stands on the road for about a half hour without even the distant sound of an engine in the distance, and it kills the already pessimistic view he’d had on a boy who looks like him versus a girl who looks like  _ Meg _ and his chances of getting picked up at all. She’s probably already gotten a ride and been able to completely charm her way into someone’s phone with no problem. Sam’s sure about this because if she had asked,  _ he’s _ pretty sure he would have given her his phone. 

The first car that drives down the road doesn’t pause--it’s a middle aged blond woman with kids in the back of her van who sneers at Sam as she passes. Lovely. 

He lifts his thumb for the next vehicle about fifteen minutes later, a big, heavy semi covered in rust and steel, and if he’s  _ honest _ he gives up once he gets a look at the guy--it’s  _ shallow _ , and Sam knows it and thinks pitifully of his intro to psych class and prejudices around class and location, but Sam has been in so many bars where rough and tough guys like the driver have either glared at them angrily, called he and Dean homophobic slurs (apparently, two brothers sitting with legs and elbows tucked into each other for no discernable reason gives a  _ vibe _ , which may have given Sam a complex when he was about, oh, thirteen or so), or just straight up tried to pick a fight with them when they saw how their mouths were too  _ pretty _ . 

Needless to say, Sam doesn’t expect the guy to even give Sam a passing glance. Hell, Sam expects him to try to run him over for looking too feminine and pretty with silky hair curled past his ears. It’s all  _ stupid _ , and honestly Sam is ashamed of himself, well and truly, but it’s what he expects, and usually, Sam is right about these things. (Most things, even if Dean is a stubborn dick about uh, every single thing on the planet. Sam’s not conceited, he just knows he’s got something in his brain,  _ jackass _ \--.) But Dean’s not here. Dean left. And Sam’s alone. 

Which means Sam is the only one who deals with the doe eyed shock on his face when the truck slowly pulls over onto Sam’s shoulder of the road, the man inside already leaning out the slim window and grinning down at him through a thick wiry beard. 

“Hey there!” 

Sam breathes a nervous laugh, looks up at him through the beam of the sun. “Um, h-hey!” 

The guy looks Sam up and down, and hopefully he sees Sam as  _ innocent _ and not _ able and willing to kill any menacing things that are ten times stronger than him.  _ Sam gives him his patented boy scout smile, dimples and all, and the guy huffs a good natured laugh down at him. He seems nice enough. Sam may have just gotten way luckier than he would have ever expected. 

“What’s a--” he pauses, looks Sam up and down again, licks his lips. “A sweet boy like you doing all alone on the road?” 

Sam rubs the back of his neck, picks at the nine backgrounds he’d been tossing around his head while he’d been walking down the road, and tries to choose the one best suited for this guy. “I, uh--” He catches a glimpse of a picture clipped to the mirror, a typical family set against a farm in the background, the kids and wife a bit away from what looks like the man’s resemblance. “Oh, well, you know how it is, I was working on this old bean and corn farm up north about twenty miles, and I’m just looking for the next few months I can work with my hands, yknow?” He shrugs and grins up at him, pleads in his head for the guy to buy it. 

He squints at him, and there are three hard beats of time when Sam is anxious he’s about to have a home-embellished shotgun pointed right at his face, before the guy’s mouth curls up nice and wide on one end, and he tips his head to his cockpit. “Well come on in then, son. I’d love to give you a ride.” 

Sam smiles at him and tries to play up the act of unassuming, sweet, hardworking southern boy. He’s pretty sure he’d butcher the accent if he pushed it too hard--Dean teases him too goddamn much about it for him to  _ practice _ , even though it’d be ten kinds of useful--but he makes sure to shave off anything too “city boy” and tries to slip in a hint of it, like he’s grown up with it but tried to hide it once he moved away from home. The guy takes to him like a lover or a father. It’s honestly the most open affection Sam has received from anyone not his  _ brother _ in--since Jess, probably. And Dean likes to dump his own brand of macho shielding over it anyway, although Sam has long since gotten used to seeing his way of showing love enough to know Dean gives it out like candy for Sam. 

He sighs, suddenly. He’s still mad at Dean, obviously, he just--he always misses him. Like a limb. Like his chest is empty and aching. The first few months at Stanford were--hard. And the feeling never really went away, Sam just learned to carry it in his chest like the rest of his baggage. 

The man looks over--Kendrick, although Sam can call him Ken--and his mouth quirks up in a knowing smirk. “Aw, don’t tell me you had to leave behind an old flame or something, huh? Don’t worry about those, son, a boy who looks like you will have  _ plenty _ of fish in the sea.” 

Sam laughs, abashed. He’s been dropping lines about Sam’s looks all ride and Sam still can’t stop blushing. “Um, n-no, nothing like that. Just a brother.” 

Kendrick raises a brow. He hums. “Well. Those are a bit harder to let go of, but...Like I said. You’ll have plenty of people to soothe that ache, baby boy.” 

The  _ baby boy _ is just too, well, um, yeah, and especially the way he says it--Sam shifts in his seat, throws a smile his way, but Kendrick still reaches over and squeezes his knee, just a little too greedily, stroking along the inside of Sam’s thigh, feeling out the give of his muscle with his grip. 

That’s the point Sam knows he fucked up wildly, and realizes he might be in a more dangerous place than stuck in a room with five pissed off, ancient and bent for justice ghosts. 

Kendrick keeps his hand on Sam’s thigh, heavy, and it shifts ever higher. 

Five minutes after that, Sam sees an exit--Kendrick’s hand spans across the middle of his thigh, his fingertips pressing hard into his seams--and perks up. “Ha, um, actually I just remembered I have a friend in that town--do you think you could drop me off there? I’d love to catch up with them and--” 

Kendrick’s hand grips and squeezes his muscle. “Nah, baby, you said you needed to go far, right? I’ll give you as much of a ride as I’ve got in me,” he says, and turns and gives Sam a big smile. Sam just stares at him in a dearth of fear, and watches him refocus on the road. 

The sun’s going down. Kendrick’s hand rides higher. 

Sam hunts monsters. Sam kills monsters. Sam has been trained to fight beasts of old and new and all the dark and dangerous things. He can deal with one pervy old man who likes boys who are “just the prettiest thing he’s seen five states past.” It should be a cake walk. 

He realizes he can’t hit him on the road--there’s so many cars on this stretch of highway they’ve stayed on almost religiously if Kendrick so much as swerves Sam could kill innocent people--he was considering taking the risk (he’s good at this, he could just take hold of the wheel and jerk him away from the traffic, he’s almost certain he could) right before he locked eyes with a family of five--and he had sat back, swallowed, and settled in to wait. 

Around an hour after midnight, Kendrick turns onto an exit for a truck stop. The bright orange lights of the station screech wide into the pitch black of the night, but even their head aching color doesn’t stop Sam from seeing it as a piece of sanctuary. He thinks one of the reasons it’s been so terrifying is because this guy isn’t planning on hitting or bruising Sam--maybe--he wants to use his body. Sam doesn’t think of his body as a thing to be used that waya. Admittedly, when it comes to hunting, he’s always felt like his body has been given up, since John set out and dragged him and Dean with him, and it has been turned into a weapon for using and using and--

A few miles back, Kendrick had radioed ahead to a few of his buddies in the area, told them he was coming in. Sam has had sleep digging into him two hours deep into sunset--he’s been running on low sleep anyway, even if he doesn’t get healthy amounts even normally--but he’s kept his eyes open and his head up, trying to force adrenaline through him just to keep him awake, just until he can get away and find somewhere safe. The radio had worried him, but Sam has snuck his way out of tighter windows before. They’ll be expecting them, but all Sam needs to do is fight Kendrick in the lot, tuck him out of the view of the window, and hightail it out of there. If he won’t even have time to hotwire a car then that’s just the luck of the draw, frankly. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. 

Numbly, his phone has sat in his pocket, and all he has wanted to do is call Dean. Each time Kendrick has put his hand higher and gripped him with more possessiveness--all Sam could think about was how only his  _ brother _ could touch him like that, good naturedly and with the inherent ownership that comes with being family. That’s how he and Dean have always been, and now it grounds him. He and Dean may be separated, but he’s still Dean’s little brother. He can get out of this, and if they can ever reunite again, even fractured as they are--Sam will sit in the passenger seat of the Impala and Dean will poke and tug at him, jostle him with his wide hands, the hands of Sam’s big brother--and Sam will feel home again. 

He’ll be just fine. 

They start to turn into the parking lot, and Sam unwittingly sits up, readies his whole body, feels his heart kickstart and his muscle get ready to fight. 

As he stares at the curve of the road, the point of asphalt where Sam will leap over and slam himself into his gut, Kendrick grips a beer bottle on the side Sam had never seen it, and whips it across Sam’s head. As the glass shatters, as Sam’s head shutters dark and he drops into unconsciousness, he can only think of how Dean would be so disappointed in him. 

Such a simple thing. And he couldn’t even do this. 

He forcibly blinks his eyes open as he’s being hauled by his elbows through somewhere. It sounds like they’re inside, in a building with enough joy and laughter and music happening to mean something, but they’re not in the same room as all that. He’s being pulled somewhere else. And he’s so dizzy with pain rattling and ringing in the back of his skull, he can’t even figure out where. 

He tries to pull his feet back under him, but they feel completely detached from him, and all they do is drag along the floor listlessly with him. Drool drips out of his lolling mouth, and he can’t even muster up the strength or dignity to control that. 

It’s when his shins are scraping painfully over the jut of a doorway that he realizes he’s got a lot more to panic about--he’s being held by a large man on each side, and based on the blurry shapes in the room he’s being pulled into, that’s only the first part of it. 

He’s dropped unceremoniously on the floor, and he only hears an underwater crowd of sound, and then the crisp click of a lock. 

He hears gurgles of sound, appreciative, but nothing comes in with enough clarity for him to make out, and then he’s being bodily dragged standing. 

The hands at his biceps throw him roughly forward, and he groans as he slams half bent over thick wood. Basic table, maybe pool, although that’s barely important. He tries to see through the blur of his eyes, catch a glimpse of something on the walls or in the room to help him figure out where he might be. Although, he realizes that won’t do much good either. What’s he gonna do? Call his dad, who never picks up the phone? Who taught Sam he wouldn’t toss an ounce of attention his way even if he broke his body for it by the time he was nine? Call his--Call  _ Dean _ ? 

Sam already fucked that up too--he can’t do shit without fucking it up, apparently. 

He digs his aching head into the table, bites a wry smile against the smooth surface. 

Then he takes notice of the hands working at his buckle. 

He’s only got the strength to shimmy his body  _ uselessly _ \--hell, someone behind him laughs and slaps his ass. He’s--he’s starting to realize this is actually going to happen to him, and he’s got no strength, no power, and no Dean. 

He’s fucked. 

A pair of hands grip his face on both sides, tilt him up so he’s squinting into the piercing, headache inducing light. The haze to his vision has yet to wear off too, so even now he can’t make out anything, only the fuzzy shape of someone above him, big enough to make Sam’s heart pound. 

Thick, dirty thumbs rub and pull his lips, pinches them, and his hearing clears up enough to hear: “Pretty pink bitch--probably does this shit daily.” The rest of the room laughs with him, and Sam’s snarl is weak and pathetic. The man only coos at him and slaps his cheek humiliatingly. 

“Don’t worry, son, we just want some stress relief. Shouldn’t’a gone struttin’ around with your cute little ass and pretty, puppy dog face huh?” He leans in close, his breath ghosts hot and thick over Sam’s mouth and forces a waft of smoke, cheap beer and cheaper jerky. Sam screws his face up and tries to turn his face away, but he can’t even do that. A cheap shot to show him how powerless he is. “Ya had to’ve known someone would’ve come along to eat you up, boy.” 

He backs away, but only moves further down his body. “Let’s really enjoy this pretty body, fellas--always stupid to waste a good meal.” He tugs Sam’s shirt out of its tuck from his pants and up his stomach, squeezing at the softness of his hips. He hums. “First things first: face up...or ass up?” 

Quickly, someone says, “We should fuck ‘im up first, and  _ then _ put him on display. He don’t gotta be face up for me to fuck his pretty face, eh?” 

“Damn good logic if I’ve ever heard any! Someone prep any holes he’s got--and Ken since you brought ‘im in, you can have first shot at that mouth.” 

There’s a couple curses and a few high whistles, but all Sam knows is fear, and that one huge body is trudging towards him, unbuckling his belt. His jeans and underwear are yanked down his ass. Even though Sam knows what’s gonna happen to him, being exposed still shoots humiliation through him. 

Kendrick grips his chin and leans down and whispers into his ear. “Don’t be mad, baby boy. You shouldn’t be so pretty and walk alone. But I’ll take care of ‘ya. I’ll make it nice.” He presses a slimy kiss just to the side of Sam’s mouth, and Sam tries his best to spit in his face. But he can’t. And he slips away.

They shift his ass up, pet over the curves of him, and Sam grits his teeth and jerks his elbow back--he’d been thinking about conserving his energy, but he doesn’t know what these guys might do next. He can’t risk losing any window he’s got. But it was stupid to think he was gonna be able to fight his way free with the state he’s in now anyway, and the limp thrust of his arm is easily caught. He’s slapped across the face, hard enough he feels like he bleeds, and then he gets hit hard across the ass several times. It makes him jerk and whimper, shoves him up with each hit, and he dips his head down and seethes to try to deal with the pain. His ass flairs red and hot with the sting. 

“Damn, get a picture of that peach!” he hears, and he realizes this might be the worst thing he’s ever been caught up in. 

He doesn’t even have his  _ Dean _ . 

Fingers start prodding at his mouth, digging into his gums, spreading and pushing at his lips to show the ache of his mouth--a thick, dirty finger that makes Sam gag strokes across his tongue, then his teeth before it pushes back to test his gag reflex at his throat. He used to have one, but after a couple hangovers at Stanford it seemed to go away. Still, he’s so surprised he coughs around it anyway, but that just makes them all laugh at him. That’s all he is to them. A thing to laugh at...would Dean care? Or would he laugh at him too? Call him a wimp for falling to a group of humans, humiliated and degraded in the worst way. No, he wouldn’t...Sam has to think his big brother would have his back. He’s all he has. He’s all he’s ever had.

The hand in his mouth grips his tongue, and Sam bites down on his knuckles, as hard as he can. He wants to make him bleed. The guy shouts and tries to yank his hand back, but Sam clenches his teeth harder. The sweet tinge of blood hits his mouth--it’s the tiniest victory, but it feels like kingdom. 

His hair gets cinched and yanked back with ferocity, and Sam shouts in pain, his mouth automatically opening, his neck arching back on reflex. Blood smears and drips around his mouth, sweetening on his tongue even while it makes him feel filthy. He must look like a feral rat, a mangy gutter thing. He hopes so. He wants them to look at him and recoil--away, away, away. 

But he forgets this type--pride and bluster when challenged only tips them to swing harder. He can hear Dean’s voice in his head as one of their fists clock him sideways.  _ Sammy, how is such a smart college boy such a dumbass?  _

Maybe because his brother left him behind on a midnight backroad. Maybe because even though his brother has always said  _ you first _ , he forgot Dean is a soldier before he’s a brother. 

(Dumbass. Forgetting the basics.) __

Strong hands grip his jaw, press into the flesh of his cheeks and force his mouth into an open oval. The man behind him keeps his hair into a tight cinch, strands wrapped ruthless around his knuckles, and the other men pile on to hold him down: thick biceps help lock his arms in place, heavy knees and thighs press onto his legs. Sixteen handed beast, thoroughly bests a from-birth trained hunter.  ~~It just sounds better if it’s some kind of monster, doesn’t it? He’s not so much of a~~ \--

A tiny, thin disc is placed gently on his tongue. The hands on his skull press with all their strength to slowly force his jaw closed. Sam fights with everything he has because whatever it is, it’s never a good idea to ingest anything from something you’re fighting, but it’s two stubby, thick muscled hands, supported by arms wired by hair and muscle. Four hands, and Sam’s mouth shuts tight, He tries not to swallow, but they pinch his nose shut and--

Down the hatch, Sammy’s fucked. 

They all let go of him, and Sam coughs and heaves, but they cover his mouth until they’re sure it’s down. After, Sam just gasps for breath over the table, feeling hopeless and pitiful. It acts fast--he can still feel some of its powder across his tongue, terrible and pasty. His head starts to swim, and his whole body starts to leech his energy away. He’s just...so tired now, but wired and oversensitive. 

He didn’t have a chance anyway. What point would it be to try now? 

They open his mouth and run their fingers over his gums again, coo over the blood smeared over his lip and cheeks and talk about how while he was acting like a full out bitch, it sure does make him look pretty. All Sam can do now is look pretty and get used by these guys now. 

_ Dumbass. Dumbass. Dumbass.  _

He feels something bigger push at his lip--he can barely keep his eyes open, so he can’t see. He curls his lip up to feel it out. It’s smoother and wetter than their fingers, but his mind is just so foggy. He sticks his tongue out and curls it around the tip of it, uses it to feel it out. His arm stops having so much pressure holding it down suddenly, and he realizes he was trying to reach up to feel it out. He’s freed to do that, so he grips the thing. He furrows his brow at it--there’s so much noise around him, happy and mocking and friendly--and when he finally can peer his eyes open enough and his vision straightens out enough, he sees the thick cock in his hand. 

Kendrick grips the base and shakes it up and down, asks, “Oh, you’re so interested in it baby, why don’t you put it in your mouth? Think you’ll know what it is then? Have an instinct for it now don’t ya?” 

The whole room laughs while Sam drops it and tries to scurry away, but he either backs into thick bodies or simply doesn’t have enough energy to move enough. Fuck! Fuck! Not only is this debasing, he feels  _ embarrassed?  _ How the fuck are they doing this to him? 

He feels like a scared little boy who only wants his brother, because he never knew to want anything else. 

But his brother isn’t here. He’s just not here.

Someone drags their hand across the blood over his face and after he feels slick fingers at his ass.  _ No _ . 

They laugh at the deep thick red against the pink of his ass, of the way his hole stretches around fingers dipped in blood, lube easing the way but not  _ much _ . They hammer their fingers into him mercilessly, and that’s when it all tips over into--

Into. 

His mouth is pulled open, and the first cock is slipped inside. With whatever they gave him--a roofie? Something like it, at least. He can’t believe he got drugged, caught and--he can’t even bring up the  _ desire _ to fight or bite. Whatever they gave him is fucking with his head. The fingers in his hole and the thick, leaking weight on his tongue even feel--

Just the slight bit...

Good. 

Sammy’s fucked. 

_ Dean?  _

They steadily thrust into his mouth, sliding easily against the plush smoothness of his lips and tongue, and reflexively Sam works his mouth around it, suckling and dragging his tongue against the underside. God, he’s so weak. 

They call him whore, slut, bitch, useless hole, braindead skank. Are they wrong? Are they? 

The length of the cock starts to shove in a bit harder, and Sam coughs the first time, but then he relaxes--his whole body is a limp useless thing on the table (for them to kick and slap and scratch and fuck)--and it thrusts thickly into his throat, over and over. When Kendrick pulls out to cum over his face, Sam’s throat feels empty. Cum lands on his eyebrows, the tip of his nose, his cheekbone, his dimples, the bow of his lips. 

“Goddamn. Fucking piece of art.” Sam shivers relentlessly. 

His mouth is pried open again, and he lets another veiny length slip in, slide over his tongue, the smooth wetness of it. His mouth feels aching hot, and he guesses by his groans that the man whose cock he’s sucking appreciates that. 

Three fingers plunge into his hole dutifully, curling and pressing on his insides, and Sam arches his back, and with his loose mouth he moans like a whore. (Are they wrong?) He gets cackles and praises. It’s something nice, at least. He cradles the sounds in his chest, tries to let them warm him from the inside. He’s shivering. He must be so cold. 

The fingers pull out, his ass is slapped by what feels like several rounds of hands wanting a piece, and then the bulbous, thick head of a cock nudges at the loosened furl of his hole. 

_ Please, it’s your baby brother.  _

The man fucking his mouth rolls thick against his jaw--he stays balls deep the whole time, Sam can feel them against his  _ chin _ \--and it feels so achingly good Sam moans from deep in his throat, muffled by the wide shaft sitting in him. 

He expects the man at his ass to go slow. He doesn’t know why. Because it would feel better that way? (Are they wrong?) But he shoves in like a bull, and Sam feels it hit his whole body. He also feels--his ass isn’t able to take this. He’s only experimented shyly by himself, and he only really got half a finger in. Every time all he could hear was Dean’s mocking voice, and that was just--he wasn’t touching that. But this--he’s under lubed enough that he can feel each scrape of the man’s cock against his insides, the brutal pounding where his cockhead slams against him, and his rim feels oversensitized. It occurs to him this is his first time getting fucked by a guy. And it’s  _ this _ . Based on the way things are looking, he’s going to get pounded by several others just like this guy, thick and long, aching hot inside him and  _ mean _ . 

He gets continuously jostled by the man’s thrusts, and pulls off the man in his mouth with a gasp, strings of saliva following after him to make it a messy escape. It onlys adds to the filthy feeling he’s putting on. He dips his head down and pants, clenches his grip over the edges of the table and tries to hold on and keep still while he’s pounded, dripping spit and precum from his mouth, and after a moment, when a slick drop of salt slides into his mouth, he realizes he’s crying as well. Pathetic, silly tears, from the boy who was too weak to save himself. 

_ Your Sammy.  _

His jaw is gripped again and his face is tugged upward, and they make fun of his puffy, red face, and laugh even while wiping the mess at his swollen mouth aside and shoving back in, picking the rhythm up with a selfish, lazy care to it. It’s so uncaring for Sam--other men in the room are kicked back in recliner chairs, sharing beers and looking up at a small tv mounted in the corner of the wall, playing a raucous sports game. Others are standing in the crowd waiting on Sam, talking about how he compares to other entertainment, how pretty his ass bounces, how they’re so glad to see his pretty, bitchy cheeks stuffed with cock, his cocksucking lips finally put to their actual worth. 

The man finishes fucking his mouth by coming onto his tongue, and Sam’s eyes bulge. He’s never had to do this before, and it’s disgusting, without even considering where it’s coming from. He has to keep it in his mouth, a full mouthful disgustingly enough, to try not to swallow it. The boys wheeze and cackle at the downright pathetic display, and the guy who just fed him his seed snorts, and then covers Sam’s mouth with his hand again. Sam chokes, and come spits out the edges of his mouth and falls from the sides of the guy’s palm, but he still can’t spit it all out. He keeps a grip on the back of Sam’s head and presses his palm to his lips harder, and then the guy brutalizing his hole shoves in with such a shockingly hard thrust that Sam accidentally swallows just so he can gasp. The man pulls his hand away, but the whole room laughs at him as he struggles to breath, and call him a cumguzzler. He never--if he ever did that he didn’t want--why is this happening why can’t--

_ He needs you.  _

The man behind him grips his hips harder, jackhammering into him with force, and Sam clenches around him in pained reflex. The man curses, and then Sam gets creampied for the first time as well. He collapses into the table as much as they’ll let him, turning into a pile of depressive limbs. They move his limp body around the way they like it--lifts his leg up so he’s more on his side when they pound his ass, shift and roll his head around just to act like a fleshlight with his skull. His head sits uselessly on the table on it’s side, and some fuck into him lazily, bulging his cheeks and throat with such indulgence that Sam can’t even find it in himself to care about. His throat and ass felt raw within the second round. He feels like he’s been sullied by cum everywhere they could find. Should he bathe in holy water, truly blessed water, yet even then would he ever actually become clean? 

_ He’s sorry.  _

He feels like he’s been dipped in sex and cum and soreness, only to be pounded and fucked by another round of men, each who call him worse names than the last. 

A man grips him by his bangs, yanks him up so he can see him in hell’s orange light, and he sees the hand he’d bitten, no longer bleeding but punctured and irritated red. “Remember me, bitch?” 

He uses his bangs to drag him back and forth onto his cock, this one truly fucking his whole skull so hard he feels like he’ll never be able to speak the same again. He gags on every thrust, but he especially likes the obvious suffering he’s inflicting on Sam, and the whole room likes the sound and image of it. They’re obviously not worried about the well being of their sex dolls. Sam has had so many men fuck him he couldn’t count them if he tried. The whole night has been a blurry, dizzy haze only held together by the humiliating constant knowledge that he’s being used. Some men have just come up and watched the show, jerked off onto his body or his face, added to the mess of his ass and cum over the curve of it. His clothes are ruined. If he ever sees Dean again. He’ll. He would. 

His hole is a loose wreck, and he can feel the way each cock after the first is wettened by the cum of the men before him. His ass almost feels numb, but in such a way that it is oversensitized to every movement. Whenever they slap his ass, he can’t help crying out, loud and whiny, which only makes them do it more. 

The man at his ass, large, so thick Sam had whimpered at the stretch even after having been fucked loose the whole night, groans, “Such a perfect--fucking-- _ whore! _ ” 

(Are they right?) 

_ Dean? _


End file.
